Eyes of infinity
by OperationFailed
Summary: - In a nutshell, Sherlock is a spirit that, on the Earth, has the shape of man. Once completing his 'mission' which you are not allowed to know, now , he becomes a spirit again, taking the form of a swan. Of course, this can't be placed in the SherlockBBC canon timeline… Sorry about any mistakes, English is not my first language!


He thought it right when he took him out of the Thames.

_This man has got the infinite in his eyes. _

If only someone would have told him…

In front of them now the river flows, and John knows. He had already felt it in the taxi, because Sherlock was petrified and his fingers slid swiftly on his palms.

Now the world doesn't breathe and if it weren't for the bubbling water, the scene would seem like something out of a romantic work. Perhaps Turner's, because the sunset is bleeding on the silent horizon, or Constable's, for the fronds are rich in colours and the bird traces on the mud.

Sherlock has his back to Doctor Watson. The river brushes the tip of his shoes; the shipwrecking gaze stares at the running water. A few steps behind, John breathes out slowly, his hands clinging to the coarse fabric of the jeans. They are the ugliest and most uncomfortable pair he owns, but they were the closest pair and he hadn't had the time to seek out the right clothes for a farewell.

On the contrary, Sherlock is flawless in his dark coat. His scarf has trapped some curls against his neck and the collar is down, now, because there's no point in doing _that thing_, the mysterious one with sharp cheekbones and all that, because they are alone. John would like to put that locks in order, but he can't. He can't.

_«You haven't got enough clothes on»_ Holmes turns, taking off the right glove. Beneath, the whiteness of his hand is violent to the gaze. A step and Sherlock takes off the other one, pulling finger by finger the dark leather of the glove, slowly. He matches them, then he allows them to fall.

Staring up at John again, interrupting the eye contact not even for a moment, Sherlock takes off the scarf and frees the trapped curls, which resemble child's scribbles. He tightens the scarf in a hand, slowly unbuttoning the coat with the other one, his infinite gaze hooked on John's eyes. Terrestrial, baffled.

_«I told you it would have been cold» _two steps ahead and he takes off the whirling coat too, leaning it on John's shoulders. Beneath it, a light shirt gleams in the sunset. He surrounds Watson with the scarf, drawing the doctor towards him. John's forehead is warm, their contact is a shiver and their eyelashes slightly brush together.

Sherlock rubs his hands on the doctor's shoulders and tightens the scarf with his tapering fingers, before laying his lips on the soft ones of the other. Selfishness, free violence, a possession mark. An assured place at the top of John's thoughts, now and forever – painless is the mouth that has never been tasted.

_«You've been chosen for a reason, John Watson»._ The scarf slides down, like disposable sky scrunched up and thrown away. Sherlock's hands go back along the hips, pale, beautiful.

_«I know you will get over this_» Sherlock approaches the river and stoops, to untie his shoes.

_«You cannot disappoint me now»_ he looks back towards John. He straightens up and his eyes are always there, with all that infinite inside. He is always there, impassive, infuriating, with twilight stained irises.

Motionless.

Crowded.

Gagged.

John sees him taking off the smart shoes, but he'd rather have never looked at him, because things you ignore can't rip your heart out.

Stooping again, Sherlock keeps undressing with the soft movements of a feline. Like a cat rolling up his tail, he carefully folds over his burgundy socks upon the shoes and he places the belt on the top, as if they were jewellery put back at the end of the day.

He straighten up to find John has buried his face in his hands. His head is slightly tilted, the fingers of the left hand are hooked to the coat

on his shoulders. The jaw is forced in a stiff bite, the vein on the neck is bloated in silence.

_«Look at me, John»_

The swish of the sliding trousers breaks the silence, his eyes always staring at the doctor.

_«I said look at me»_

John uncovers his face, his lips immediately widening with astonishment.

Sherlock faces him. His pearly thighs are thin and long in the air, the gaze burning on his algid face.

_«You can't. You can't leave, Sherlock. We need you, the world–»_

Sherlock caresses his palms with his tapering fingers, while a rueful smile bends his lips.

He waits one more moment, then his briefs are on the ground and John's brain is on fire. He shifts his gaze on Sherlock's bare feet, on his slim ankle, again on the feet.

_«You must look, John. Look at me»_ The authoritarian tone is barely annoyed, his eyes are tumultuous clouds. The Doctor lifts up his chin, like he used to do when he stood at attention during the flag hoisting.

Nevertheless, his eyes escape, leaning on the darker and darker blush of the horizon, on the bare branches touching water, on the socks bent like red leafs of autumn.

_«John»_ Holmes impatiently rebukes him, taking a step forward. Watson finally fixes his gaze upon Sherlock's prominent cheekbones, with his teeth thrust deep into his cheek, clenching his fists. On Holmes's face and nowhere else, where he expects him to be.

_«I want you watchful»_ he admonishes, unbuttoning the white shirt with tiring slowness. John looks at him with titanic resistance and then he crumbles and his gaze slides down, to the sinuous fingers making their way across the fabric, carefully undoing each button. Beneath the shirt, Sherlock's chest seems to capture drop by drop that tired last day.

_«Are you looking at me, John?»_

The doctor shivers, the mist rising slowly from the river and clinging to their clothes, to the light veins on Sherlock's wrist, a grid of streets John hasn't covered yet.

_«When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Remember, John?»_

Doctor Watson remembers. He has got in mind the crazy running along London's alleys, all the solved and dismissed cases, every sign of boredom on the wall.

_«I'm not the impossible. I'm not a dream, John. Somewhere out there I will always exist»_

John clenches his fists and the palms don't bleed only because of his good habit of keeping his nails short. The sight of Sherlock is a torment he would never deny himself. But Sherlock turns towards the river and the vision slowly fades away. The opened shirt flutters upon the backside, the hard buttocks are a drawing to colour, the tapered legs vanish in the mist. John holds his breath while Holmes puts his feet in the water, one after the other, at once devoured by the ravenous and icy river. The legs sink more and more in the running water, the ankles vanish, the knees disappear. The river hugs his thighs and waist, it bevels the angles and makes them shine. John grits his teeth, but a word betrays him and eludes control, a groan condensing in the cold.

«Sherlock…» his knees buckle slightly under the weight of such abandon, his eyes rising to the sky and tighten in refusal, before being immediately recalled back to the same sweet figure.

Disappeared.

«Sherlock!» his cry echoes on the leafs and over the stones, the coat falling down from his shoulders when the doctor shoots ahead. The water is icy, the breath taken away is a jerk in his throat, clothes stick to his skin and drag him down, on his knees. The eyes see what the brain knew and always refuse to elaborate.

A mute swan glides upon the water, dressed in a light shirt that encircles its back and flutters around. With a veer, the animal returns to John, the proud neck stretched towards him.

The man reach out his hand, brushes the beak, trembles toward the wings. The swan comes closer and, bending the neck in a nod, lets John taking off the shirt stuck in its wings, opening in the running water like a bud of flowered gardenia.

It is a majestic creature, with bushy and snow-white plumage. The body is vigorous, the neck slim and elegant. Around and under its bright pupil, the black feathers look like inconsolable tears.

With one last further push, the animal faces the doctor. It looks at him, seeming to be kindly warming him with that glimmer of the eyes that were always his. Then, it bends its neck and slowly brushes its beak against John's cheek, with closed eyes. They stop like that for a moment, surrounded by the frost of a harsh winter and of a final farewell, in the short warmth of a new contact. One second more and the swan turns, moving away on the surface of the water.

_«Sherl–Oh God, Sherlock!» _Faltering, he takes two steps ahead, staggering in the water and trembling with cold. The mist appears to be solidifying and the swan evanesces in the distance, shrouded by mist.

A crucified coat on the ground, shoes and socks like unpicked fruits, trousers and briefs that are black and white memories. A belt that will encircle nothing but an old hat stand. And the dark horizon, and a twilight devoured before it could flower.

Beside John is a shirt, like an injured plastic bag that wavers suavely.


End file.
